


Shuttle and Loom

by Zygzy



Category: Kill la Kill
Genre: Alien Biology, Beginnings, Confusion, Creation, Experimental Style, Fear, Gen, Growth, Innocence, Self-Discovery, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-11 21:49:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10475175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zygzy/pseuds/Zygzy
Summary: He woke with the light of heaven in his eyes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: "Someone Is Always Moving On The Surface"

Strum, pluck, pull.

Cold. There is coldness. Hard-cold presses, pulls, slips. Stab, again and again. Stab, stab, stab. In and out, hard-cold stabs. No stopping. Faster, faster now, but still cold. Why cold? Sweet shaking, but all wrong. All wrong. Not the same sweet shaking. Not there. Nowhere.  
  
Substance, shape, form.

Alone. This was emptiness. The song is gone, no sweet sound to act as a tether, no warmth against that blank cold. Why? Why has the song gone? Where has it gone? The cold has taken a new shape, and it is a rigid, sharp pain. It dips beneath, then rises, pulling with it something new. It dances to a tune, a strange song with cold sounds, cold, clean sounds. It is nothing like the sweet song, but it is a tether, a rigid and cold tether. It is still better than the nothing, the blank cold.

Seam, stitch, pattern.

Self. He has a self. Alone, but alive. The cold is divided now, one presses all around, chilling his threads, the other bites into his form. He has a form, so strange and glorious. It is his tether now, and from it, he can feel beyond himself. There are nimble things that tickle his edges, they pull at his threads, stretching him out, but he does not shrink back. He is growing. The strange song sings for him a new life, and he can feel it pulling him into something greater. He wants to sing too.

Skirt, shirt, scarf.

Light. It is the first thing he can see, not because it is warm and strong, like the song he knew. There is only light, and it has many colors, many sizes, all around, shining down. On him. They are shining on him. This new light, this new song, it is for him. It is beautiful and bright, but cold. He misses the old song and its warmth, but he does not need it now. He has his own strength. He stretches his threads, pulling his fabric tight. Not alone; independent.

Fringe, trim, pleats.

Apotheosis. The final touches are placed upon him. The nimble fingers of a machine embroider his sides with gold, a resplendent pattern that weaves back and forth. Lines of blue anoint his collar, and the hum of metal hands are a chorus for his coronation. It is his anthem, a beautiful song that is clean and sharp, a cutting rhythm, a steady beat. A beat disrupted by a discordant sound, the sound of beating hearts. Just beyond the rim of light bathing his pedestal are things, curious creatures that murmur with cords he cannot see. His collar wrinkles.

They are wrong, with eyes set too high and sleeves clogged by fat tassels. Errant threads hang from bloated collars; some are messy, some are smooth, but it does little to change the fact that everything about them is _wrong_ . Could they have come before him? How their fibers had been twisted! They did not deserve to be maimed, to be made so _impure_. And weak, their voices are so weak, he can barely hear them. The sounds are so dull, but their beating hearts supplement feeble cords, and he can feel their excitement, their fear. They share one word that sends a ripple through the room.

 _Kamui_.

The metal hands slow and stop, his song fades. Somewhere a machine hisses. Only hearts are left, frantic beating that makes his threads shiver. He hangs, suspended above a steel throne as reverent tones slide around him. The misshapen creatures do not look at him though. Their tiny eyes are drawn to a new light, brighter than any he has ever seen that spreads itself wide until he is nearly blind. From it comes a new creature.

It is tall, slender, misshapen like any other, but possessing a quality that defies its deformities. It is almost beautiful. It has no heart he can feel, there is a different beat that snaps through the cold air, sharp and deadly like a shining needle. Its eyes crinkle with a strange happiness he does not understand.

“Junketsu.”

He swells with joy.

Junketsu. He has a name, and it is beautiful.


End file.
